


Offer me that deathless death

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [16]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bath Sex, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Kissing, Not Canon Compliant, Out of Character, Pet Names, Romance, Rough Sex, Simultaneous Orgasm, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24447283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: A little PWP written for a dear friend. You are bathing, and Geralt comes home to your wet divinity and worships accordingly.Title is from Hozier's 'Take Me to Church' and is an echo of the famous French phrase 'la petite mort' - or 'a little death', referring to the human orgasm. In other words, this is just straight up porn.Written for POC!Readers, but I hope it's accessible to most.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840087
Comments: 15
Kudos: 320





	Offer me that deathless death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TutuWho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TutuWho/gifts).



It takes a long time to boil water for the tub when Geralt is away.

One part of you curses him for building such a large basin, although you admit that the other part is gleeful at the idea of luxuriating in warmth, scrubbing the day away and floating in a softly-scented haven. As you pour the last cauldron of scalding water in, you grin at your own handiwork. Beside the light of the fire, there are a few candles of varying height, crushed rose-petals dotting the surface of the water, as well as a generous sprinkle of your home-made citrus and rosemary oil. Anything at market is too pungent for Geralt’s sensitive nose, and so you are content to make your own supplies.

It helps keep your mind occupied when he’s hunting.

Tying your curls up into a scarf to keep them secure, you shed your robe like snake-skin, happy to let it puddle on the floor as you pad to the kitchen. Gloriously, confidently nude, you shiver as the night air nips at your skin, pebbles your nipples; you think about how decadent the bathwater will feel as you sink into it. There’s no reason not to spoil yourself, and so you pour a large cup of your best wine, and pick up a bowl of blueberries from the kitchen.

When you return to the hearth, you set your snacks down on a nearby stool, and test the water with your tippy-toes. It’s bitingly hot, but you know it’s just the difference in temperatures; a small shock, and your body will adjust. You slip your legs in, making a little squeak at the sensation, and before you resign yourself to dipping in with trepidation (how Geralt _mocks_ you for doing so!), you seat yourself in the tub.

A low moan escapes your lips. The water warms your blood, sends your flesh pricking, but after a few seconds the slight sting turns to pleasure. With your back against the wood, the water reaches the slant of your clavicle, and you forget your previous irritation at Geralt’s craftsmanship. It’s a good bath.

Your thoughts drift to the witcher, as they often do when you are unoccupied. He’s taken a contract nearby – he said it was something easy, which you’ve learned means ‘don’t ask’, -- and you aren’t sure when to expect him back again. It’s been three days of work and self-distraction so that you’ll fall into your bed exhausted, trying not to reach across to the empty space beside you.

Grabbing the sliver of soap, you lather a cloth until it’s foamy, and then rise to your knees. You scrub your arms, your chest, beneath your breasts, and smile at the lather that drips from your nipples. And then you hear a gasp.

“ _Fuck_.”

You whirl instinctively, about to cover your chest, but two strong hands catch your wrists. Your pulse beats frantic wings in the cage of your chest, your mind reeling with the moment it takes to recognise the form of Geralt. Geralt, who is still dressed from the hunt. Who is capable of opening your front door and sneaking soundlessly inside, possibly suspecting you’d be slumbering.

Geralt, who is staring at you with such hunger and ferocity that your breath catches in your throat.

He’s a sight, as ever. Dirt-streaked hair and road-dust on his leathers. Eyes turned pitch with desire, thinning his irises to sun-eclipse bands. Three days of stubble scattered across the knife-sharp slant of his jawline, a scrape of silver.

Cock filling at the front of his breeches, pushing the line of buttons sewn there into pronounced definition.

“Can’t a girl bathe in peace without being menaced?” Your smile is slow and wicked, contrary to the scold in your tone.

“Not when she has no business looking so fuckin’ fine doing so.” Geralt’s voice is the campfire-smoke whisper wisp that you’ve missed, all grit and growl.

“Well, either way, I’m quite captive, aren’t I?” You glance at his hands wrapped around your wrists. “Couldn’t clean myself if I wanted to.”

“I wanna get you _so dirty_ ,” Geralt jerks your arms up with a sudden movement, making your tits bounce and forcing a squeak from your lips, “That you’ll never be clean of me.”

“You’re in my skin, darling,” You purr, the shadow of your thick lashes a veil for you to regard him from, “I carry you with me.”

The possessive remark frays the last of his tattered control, and he bends down, capturing your berry-stained lips in a kiss to consume, to claim. You give as good as you get, suckling kittenishly on his lower lip, the graze of your teeth just a touch harder than usual. He moans into the warmth of your mouth and you drink of the sound, let it vibrate in the places of you made vacant for him to occupy. When you part, you’re panting, and he’s trembling ever-so slightly.

He slicks his huge hands down your arms, drawing the soap down. He pauses at your breasts, palming each one attentively, rolling your puckered nipples between his thumb and forefinger until you’re whimpering at the sensation. You feel a wash of water as he cleans you.

“Geralt,” You keen, reaching for him.

“I’ve got you, baby girl.” He rasps, and you hear the hasty unbuckling of his spaulders. He divests his shirt and belt just as quickly, and then he’s kneeling at the side of the tub. “Lean back for me, sweetheart. That’s it.”

You obey, resting against the side of the tub so that your back is to him. You feel the heat of his breath on your neck. His hand gives your right breast a fond squeeze, and then his rough fingers trail down the softness of your belly. Your head rolls, exposing the column of your neck, and he runs his mouth up it, tasting the bathwater and your clean skin.

“Did you miss me?” He asks, feathering through the curls of your public hair and finding your clit. You jerk upwards at the ghost of a touch like he’s a puppeteer with a string, and let out a low moan. His middle finger slicks down, finding the wet of you even in the water. “Mmm, feels like it. You’re hotter than the bathwater, sweetheart.”

“Geralt,” You whine again, spreading your legs, trying to buck forward as he teases your cunt with the end of his blunt finger, “Fuck, _please_. My love—”

“Say it,” He commands, the tip of his tongue tracing the fragile shell of your ear. You tremble. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“Your finger,” Your reply is quick, “Fuck me with your fingers, please.”

“What a nice way to ask.” He says, and you can hear the smile on his lips. He sinks the digit into your pussy slowly, a welcome intrusion, and you lift your hips with a whine. “Such a _good_ girl. Who taught you such manners?” Teeth scrape against your earlobe.

“ _Ungh!_ ” You cry, as he grazes the rough nerves within you, hard. His thumb presses your clit at the same time, and your legs twitch involuntarily. “Oh, yes. _Fuck_.”

“The mouth on you, though.” Geralt’s gravel-rumble chuckle makes your eyes flutter closed. Casually, as if the rhythm is not set to drive you wild, he fucks you with that single finger curled come-hither. “What to do with such a mouth?”

“F-fuck.” You pant, opening your lips. “Fill it.”

He growls at that, the rattle of animal sending you giddy, and offers his free hand. Eagerly, you lap the pad of his thumb, swirling your tongue-tip, before you suck it into your mouth. He knows how it’d feel on his cock too well, and you’re pleased when his breath stutters.

“Damn it,” He grunts, and you open your eyes to lock with his. The intensity of his gaze pins you like a butterfly to cork. “Baby, I—I need... _fuck_.”

You release him with a playful _pop_. “Say it,” You echo his words from before, playing the brat, “Tell me what you want, baby.”

He pulls you from the bath so quickly that the water sloshes from the sides. You squeal, wrapping your legs around his waist, and he walks you dripping to slam you up against the smooth wood of the door. He holds your weight with one arm, and you hear the fabric tear of his trousers as he moves his other hand between you. Your cunt pulses in need.

“What do I want?” His voice is the low rumble of thunder, a storm’s threat, “I want to fuck you _full_ of me. I want to flood your pussy to dripping. I want to wear the scratches from your nails on my back and have my ears ring with your screaming.” His cockhead swipes the length of your slit, teasing your sensitive clit, and you bite your lip. “I want to fuck you so you’ll feel me for two fucking days in _every damn step_ you take, baby. How’s that?”

Stupidly, you can only nod. “Yes,” Your voice breaks, “Fuck, yes, please. _Geralt_.”

He seeks your mouth for a kiss, bruisingly hard, at the same time as he begins to rock his cock into you. Your cunt stretches on his impressive length, and the burn is delicious. In a few strokes, he has you pinned completely against the door, balls-deep in the velvety heat of you. You’re moaning into his mouth.

He breaks away. “Fuck.” He says, emphatically, “ _Fuck_.”

Your thighs quiver. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you nuzzle his prickly jawline lovingly. At the same time, you squeeze the muscles of your cunt with hard intention.

Geralt makes a primal snarl, grips the lush flesh of your arse, and begins to fuck you savagely against the door. He buries his face into the curve of your shoulder as you openly cry out with the feeling of it, locking your ankles tightly behind him, ever-greedy. His sharp pelvis slaps your wet clit again and again, and he gets his wish when you drag your nails sharply up his back, slowly going mindless with the sensation.

“Fuck, you’re so tight for me,” He gasps at your ear, “Missed you. _Fuck_ , fuck, _so good_ , baby.”

You can only answer in a staggered groan, the vice-muscles of your cunt throbbing around him as he pounds you. He knows exactly how you like it, exactly where to drag out his thrusts so your g-spot fizzes, and it’s mere minutes before he has you trembling on the tight-rope precipice of orgasm.

“Gera—Geralt!” You scream, nosing his hair aside, mouthing the pale skin of his throat, “I—you’re going to make me—I’m _gonna_ —”

He shoves a hand between you and flicks your clit with his thumb in deft swipes. “Do it.” He demands, “Come on my cock, sweetheart. That’s my girl.”

You break apart at the command. Heat swells and bursts between your legs, the nerves of you split like a ripe summer peach, juicy and dripping. The walls of your cunt cling and shiver around him, gossamer strings of your squirt drooling from your join as you sink your teeth into the meat of his shoulder. You’re faintly aware that you’re screaming. His rhythm suffers, a staccato stutter, and he groans savagely as his dick twitches in your swollen folds. The heat of his come rushes into you, hot lashings that spill and spill as he pulls you tight to his chest, huffing short breath as he climaxes.

For a moment, he holds you there, spending his last as the hard throbbing of his cock thrills you with aftershocks. Lazily, you kiss the bite-mark – already healing – and let your body begin to go lax. He will hold you. He always does.

Drunkenly, he staggers backwards, searching for the first available surface upon which to collapse. He folds backwards into an armchair, still sheathed within you. You’re dirtied from sweat and come and him, and still wet from the tub, but he keeps you warm. You’re content to relax on his muscle-bound chest as he drags slow fingers down your spine.

“Hmm.” You mutter, dozy. “Welcome home.”

“You are the best at welcomes.” He says, love-drunk. “Makes me race home.”

“Remind me to give Roach an extra apple.” You whisper.

He smirks. “You already spoil her.”

“She brings you to me.” You say, lifting your head to regard him. “There aren’t enough apples in the world.”

His handsome features soften. “I love you, you wonderful woman.”

“And I you.”

Geralt glances over at the bath. “A quick soak, and then bed?”

You nod at the suggestion, and sigh happily as he uses a burst of igni to re-heat the water. No cauldrons of water over the fire. Effortlessly, he lifts you.

It’s good to have your witcher home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Follow me on tumblr @inber for Witcher nonsense.


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